


Beauty is in the Ear of the Listener

by Sani86



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blind Aziraphale (Good Omens), Falling In Love, Guitars, M/M, Musician Crowley (Good Omens), look i love music okay, so much classical guitar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26794483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/pseuds/Sani86
Summary: Aziraphale would always remember the first time he heard the music, tendrils of song winding through the night air like a droplet of ink spilled into water, gently reaching out, probing, spreading until it seemed to fill the entire world.He followed its beckoning call.[Human AU]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 147
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	Beauty is in the Ear of the Listener

**Author's Note:**

> This story was born when I remembered a minor plot line from a soap I watched, hmm, 15 years ago (If you recognise it – hi, you must be South African!). It more or less wrote itself in the space of two days. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> As always, shout out to my dear UlsPi for their endless patience with my GO-related (and unrelated) ramblings. And for finding every time I accidentally write “bling” instead of “blind” 😜
> 
> If anyone’s curious, the condition I imagine Aziraphale having is [Choroidermia](https://www.curechm.org/#choroideremia).
> 
> There is a lot of music here; hyperlinks in the text will take you to YouTube videos and I’ll also put the links in a list at the end.

Aziraphale would always remember the first time he heard the music.

It was late on a Saturday night, so late that it was in fact Sunday morning, at the end of an absolute nightmare of a week in which Aziraphale finally had to admit that his eyesight had failed him: he could no longer make out the text of his beloved books, no matter how much he illuminated and magnified it.

For years now – decades, really – he’d been looking at the world through an ever-narrowing tunnel, the disc of light that he could still see growing smaller and blurrier with every passing year. Now, the visible world was reduced to a tiny circlet of indistinct shadows; just enough to ensure he didn’t crash into anyone or anything, provided the light was bright and he paid careful attention, but functionally blind when it came to doing anything more. Definitely when it came to reading, which was perhaps the greatest loss of all.

Aziraphale didn’t drive a car, he appreciated art but had enough for a lifetime stored in his memory, and he enjoyed the theatre equally well with his eyes shut – but reading, oh, that was a loss almost too great to bear. He mourned for his books with the same passion that others might mourn a lost lover, and clung to them with the same stubborn fervour as Juliet clung to her Romeo. Aziraphale considered reading to be one of the greatest joys of life, along with fine food and finer wine... and oh, yes, beautiful music.

He’d been walking aimlessly through town; a strange thing to be doing in the wee hours of the morning, but he found himself restless with insomnia and besides, he was used to relying more on his cane than his eyesight to know where he was going. Luckily Tadfield was the sort of small town where you could still go out for a midnight stroll and be sure of meeting nothing worse than a stray dog or constable Tyler patrolling the empty streets on his bicycle.

He was enjoying the crisp night air as he walked along, contemplating the fact that it might be time to figure out this whole audiobook business, when he heard it. The [sound of a guitar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=inBKFMB-yPg), coming from somewhere to the left of him. Tendrils of song winding through the night air like a droplet of ink spilled into water, gently reaching out, probing, spreading until it seemed to fill the entire world.

Aziraphale frowned to himself. Unless he was mistaken, there was nothing that way but some warehouses that should be abandoned at this time of night. Was it a security guard, perhaps, playing some music to help them through the long stretches of the night?

Curiosity won out over caution, and he found himself walking towards the music. It was... unearthly, really. Aziraphale wasn’t terribly familiar with guitar music, his own tastes running more to Brahms and Bach, but something in this melody called to him. There was no singing, only the sound of cleverly plucked strings. He followed its beckoning call, the music growing clearer as he drew nearer. Suddenly the music faltered; just a single missed note, a minor stumble before it continued. Was someone actually playing a guitar out there? Aziraphale found himself even more intrigued.

When he judged himself to be within hearing rage of the mysterious musician, he called out a tentative “Hello?”

The music stopped abruptly, with a muttered curse, and Aziraphale winced.

“I’m awfully sorry if I startled you,” he said into the night.

Silence.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, or to intrude on your evening, awfully rude of me I suppose,” he babbled on; mindless chatter was his default when he felt awkward. “I just wanted to say that your music is beautiful. Truly remarkable.”

More silence. Had the person walked away?

“Say, are you still there? I feel a bit foolish, now, talking to myself. Wouldn’t be the first time, I suppose.”

“’m here,” came a gruff voice from... somewhere? In this light, Aziraphale couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face, much less make out another person.

“Oh, jolly good!” he said. “I was worried you might have disappeared on me.”

Silence.

Hmm. The man wasn’t exactly a brilliant conversationalist.

“Do you think you might perhaps play some more?” he asked, already longing to hear that hauntingly beautiful music again.

The musician answered with his instrument rather than his voice. It was a [different song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tfBZIClY7KU) than before; tinkling notes ringing out into the night, the musical equivalent of gemstones shimmering under blinking fairy lights. It was beautiful. Aziraphale stood with his eyes closed and listened, until the last note died away.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, smiling. “That was... extraordinary.”

A soft huff. Oh well, that was progress, Aziraphale supposed. At least it was a response.

“I wonder... might I hear you play again some time?”

Silence.

“All right, then. I’ll... well. Can’t say I’ll see you around. But I’ll be listening out for you. I often walk this way at night. I do hope we’ll meet again.”

He reluctantly turned around and made his way back into town.

The music followed him home, up the stairs and into bed; it lulled him to sleep and played in his dreams.

He slept better than he had in months.

\---

The next day, as he made his morning tea, he debated with himself whether he should tell Anathema about the midnight musician. The young woman who helped him out in the shop (oh, who was he kidding, she pretty much ran the shop) might know something about a mysterious guitarist turning up in town. On the other hand, she was sure to reprimand him for walking around town alone in the middle of the night, and he wasn’t sure that he had the energy for that.

And also... also, some strange, childish part of him wanted to keep this to himself; wanted to tuck away this beautiful music in a secret place in his heart. Which was foolish, he knew. Surely no-one who could play like that would linger in obscurity for long.

Either way, it was Sunday; the shop was closed on Sundays, which meant he didn’t have to decide one way or another until tomorrow morning.

The day passed peacefully, as Sundays tended to, but Aziraphale was restless. The ghost of the musician followed him around all day; he’d forgotten the melody of his song already, but the feeling it awoke in him was much harder to shake. He wondered, if he went out again tonight, would he find the strains of a guitar beckoning him closer? There was no real reason to assume the man would be there again. He never had been before, after all.

Midnight found him wandering down to the warehouses again. He strained his ears for any trace of music, any tiny indication that he hadn’t come here in vain, but he was met with only silence. A pang of loss echoed through him; grief for losing something he never really even had in the first place.

Still, his feet carried him on, until he was standing, as best he could guess, in the same spot as he had been last night.

“Hello?” he said, tentatively; feeling more than a little ridiculous. “Are you there?”

“You came back.” The voice – oh, thank heavens, it was the same voice – was laced with surprise.

“Of course. I said I would. Although, I must say, you had me worried for a moment there, when I didn’t hear any music. Oh, do say you’ll play-“

He was cut off by music. [Tonight’s song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I3jWsoQ8W8g) was upbeat; something that reminded Aziraphale of flamenco dancers whirling in a flurry of red and black skirts. It seemed almost impossible that there was only guitar; the flurry of notes suggested at least two players.

Aziraphale found himself suddenly wishing that he could watch the guitarist’s hands; he was sure it would be a sight to behold.

The song finished on one last chord, and he immediately started [another](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aleh4SL6mfY) equally impressive piece. Aziraphale was enthralled.

Silence followed the end of the second song. It felt like a sacred moment; as if Aziraphale had been gifted with something holy and precious.

Because it was, and he had been.

“Thank you,” he eventually broke the silence.

“You’re welcome,” said the mysterious voice.

“I wish I could see how you play,” Aziraphale said wistfully.

“Yeah, not gonna happen,” came the wry answer.

Aziraphale was surprised at the venom in his tone. Surely it was obvious that he was blind? Sighted people generally don’t walk around with a white cane sweeping the ground ahead of them (although Aziraphale’s cane was a stylish pale golden colour, thank you very much) or ask if you’re there when they’re standing right in front of you. But the musician had sounded almost aggressive, as if being unseen was his choice.

Oh well, that was a mystery for another day.

“May I,” Aziraphale faltered, but then pushed on. “Would you at least tell me your name?”

The silence stretched on, and once again Aziraphale found himself wondering whether the musician had simply walked away.

And then.

“Crowley.”

It was almost a whisper; if Aziraphale hadn’t been straining his ears, he might have missed it.

“Crowley,” he repeated, rolling the word on his tongue, feeling the shape of it in his mouth.

A soft mmm was his only answer.

“I’m Aziraphale,” he offered in return. “I own the bookshop in town, A.Z. Fell & Co. If you ever want to stop by, or anything.”

A huff of laughter.

“Or not. It was just a thought.” Aziraphale paused for a moment, in case the musician – Crowley, he reminded himself – wanted to say anything more. He didn’t.

“Well, then. I suppose I should get going,” Aziraphale said reluctantly. “Let you get some rest and all.”

“[One more song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sBpWn2h-T8U&list=RDKHjEIheD-Cg&index=2)?” came a tentative question.

Aziraphale couldn’t help the smile that broke over his face at the offer. “That would be simply splendid, my dear,” he said.

And then Crowley was playing again; soft, sweet, achingly tender; the kind of music that can shatter a soul and piece it back together again, all in the space of a few minutes.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“You’re welcome,” came the reply.

“Will you be here again?” Aziraphale asked, carefully; afraid of spooking the secretive man.

“Every night, angel.”

\---

Aziraphale was hopeless the next day. When Anathema asked him about it, he blamed a lack of sleep, but he knew that wasn’t the case. He was quite used to running on four or five hours of sleep a night. No, it was the music, and the echo of a half-heard, possibly imagined “angel”.

He went back to the warehouses that night. Really, there was never any chance that he wouldn’t. There was a sense of inevitability to it.

For someone who spent so much time in the world of fiction, Aziraphale was remarkably level-headed. He didn’t believe in fate or predestination; didn’t believe in a benevolent deity mapping out the course of his life – if so, he had a few choice words for Them. But he did believe that there were more things in heaven and earth than he could possibly dream of (to borrow a line from the bard). He believed that there were pockets of mystery and magic scattered throughout life, and he made a point of diving into them, finding beauty and wonder wherever he could. And he knew, beyond a doubt, that certain things were just... ineffable.

“Crowley?” he enquired as he reached their usual meeting spot.

“Angel,” came the reply, and Aziraphale thought it sounded happier than the previous night, less guarded. He felt an answering joy bloom in his own chest.

“Why do you-“ he began, but he was interrupted by the first notes of the evening’s performance.

Aziraphale had never heard [Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0tsIDbsNi-c) played on a guitar before. It was mesmerising. Aziraphale couldn’t see the moon, didn’t even know if it was out, whether it would be full or the thinnest crescent or something in-between, but he could imagine its silvery light as the plangent notes washed over him.

“Remarkable,” he said as the piece ended. And then, after a pause, “Tell me, dear boy, is the moon out tonight?”

“Huh?” Crowley sounded confused. “It’s right there, can’t you see it?”

Aziraphale tried hard not to be offended at that. “Of course I can’t,” he said, rather stiffly.

“Whu--?” A wordless sound that nonetheless managed to convey complete bafflement.

“Surely you can tell that I’m blind,” Aziraphale said. “Well, near as makes no difference, especially at night.”

‘You’re what?” There was a scrambling sound as if Crowley was getting up from the floor, the soft thump of a guitar being put down, a few footsteps drawing nearer. When Crowley spoke again, his voice was a lot closer than before.

“You really can’t see me?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Aziraphale said. “You really didn’t realise? Why do you think I ask if you’re here every time? I wouldn’t have to do that if I could see you, would I?”

“Oh. I, um, I’ve been sitting behind the fence the whole time. You wouldn’t have been able to see me regardless.” Crowley sounded a bit embarrassed.

“Why would you do that?” Aziraphale asked.

“I have my reasons,” Crowley said darkly.

Before Aziraphale could ask what the heck _that_ was supposed to mean, Crowley went blurted out. “How about another song? You like Beethoven?”

Clearly, he was uncomfortable, so Aziraphale allowed the change of topic, making a mental note to ask again at a later date. “I love Beethoven,” he confirmed.

“Awesome,” Crowley said, and treated him to a very enthusiastic rendition of [Beethoven’s fifth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q7l1QJWLWXE). Aziraphale had no idea that you could play a symphony meant for a full orchestra on a single instrument, but somehow Crowley managed it.

\---

Night after night passed in this way, a lone musician playing concerts in the dark for an audience of one. They spoke little, mostly over inconsequential things; Aziraphale still had no idea who Crowley was, where he came from or what he was doing in Tadfield. He had mustered up the courage to bring it up to Anathema a few days into their strange routine, but she was as baffled as he was.

He was starting to wonder if Crowley was a figment of his imagination.

A week after their first meeting, he couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Are you even real?” he blurted out, when Crowley avoided yet another one of his questions.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re like a ghost,” Aziraphale said. “No-one else knows about you, no-one has seen you. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all just a figment of my imagination. If perhaps my brain is making up things to fill in the gaps where my eyesight used to be.”

Crowley didn’t answer right away. Instead, Aziraphale felt something brush against the back of his hand, then curl around to the front. A hand, slightly larger than his own, lean fingers slotting between his pudgier ones.

“I’m real, angel,” he said. “Real as a fucking heart attack.”

“Then why do you hide?” Aziraphale asked.

There was a long silence, but at least this time Aziraphale didn’t have to wonder if Crowley had walked away. He squeezed his hand in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

“I’m... It’s...”

Aziraphale waited patiently as Crowley struggled with his words.

His courage seemed to fail him. “I can’t. Not yet. I’m sorry.”

Crowley’s hand slipped out of his own, and Aziraphale felt a vague panic rising.

“Crowley? What’s wrong? Did I upset you?”

No answer.

“I’m sorry. Whatever I said... just, please. Don’t go.” Aziraphale was almost pleading now.

“’s getting late, angel,” Crowley said, his voice a bit rougher than usual. “Time to go.”

Okay, he supposed that was true; it must be well past midnight. But he didn’t like the way tonight had ended.

“Tomorrow? Aziraphale asked; hoping, _begging_.

“Tomorrow,” Crowley answered softly.

\---

The next night it rained.

Not the perpetual English drizzle, the kind that could easily be braved with the protection of an umbrella and a raincoat. No, this was a storm blown up from the depths of some gothic novella, all dramatic lightning and clashing thunder and winds that made the rain fall sideways and turned umbrellas into useless bits of metal and fabric.

Aziraphale paced his flat like a caged animal, waiting, _praying_ for the storm to let up. There was no way he could go out in this; no way Crowley would go out either.

It occurred to him for the first time to wonder where Crowley was staying. Was he warm, and dry, and safe from this storm? The merest possibility that he might not be made something fierce and protective well up in his chest.

When his old grandfather clock chimed two, he gave up, and went up to bed.

He barely slept.

\---

The next day was miserable, both the weather and Aziraphale’s mood. He grumbled his way through the morning, antsy and upset, until Anathema plunked him down in a chair, pressed a cup of tea into his hands and demanded to know what was going on.

Defeated, he told her the whole story.

To his surprise, she didn’t laugh, or chide him, or tell him he was being ridiculous. She just squeezed his hand and called him a hopeless old romantic, but in a fond sort of way that made it clear she was smiling.

Night time couldn’t come quickly enough.

\---

He could hear the music as he approached (a bit earlier than usual, and he’d rather not examine the reasons for that too closely). The guitar was not nearly as showy as before, just simple arpeggios, but there was something new and thrilling tonight: [Crowley was singing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KWvPOJOYqGA).

As Aziraphale got closer, he could start making out the words.

_If you're lost you can look and you will find me, time after time;_

_If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting, time after time._

He drew closer walking as silently as he could, loath to do anything to disturb Crowley’s singing. When he reached his usual spot, he stood in silence, listening as the song wound down.

“Bravo,” he said softly, after the last _time after time_ had died away.

“Angel,” Crowley’s voice was startled. “You’re early.”

“Yes. Well,” Aziraphale answered sheepishly. “I-“ _missed you desperately,_ “-was a bit concerned after the storm last night. Wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley chuckled. “I missed this, though. Beez isn’t nearly as appreciative an audience.”

“Beez?” Aziraphale asked. “That strange person who runs the scrap yard?” An unexpected pang of... something flared through him at hearing that Crowley had been entertaining someone else last night. He wouldn’t call it jealousy, exactly, but only because he was quite good at fooling himself.

“Yeah, they’re my cousin,” Crowley offered. “I’m staying with them at the moment.”

“Oh. That’s... good.” The ugly feeling was replaced with something warm and happy. It was the first time Crowley had offered up any sort of personal information, and Aziraphale felt like he’d been given a gift.

Maybe that was what gave him the courage to blurt out, “You should come to the shop.”

After a moment of shocked silence, Crowley responded with, “You know I... I can’t.“

“I don’t mean in the day,” Aziraphale added hastily. “But now. At night, when you play. I mean, it’s cold and wet out, and winter is coming. We’d be much more comfortable there, I can make us some tea, or a glass of wine, and...” he wound down, feeling rather silly for pushing this. He should know better by now.

“You’d really be okay with that?” Crowley asked softly.

“I rather think I’d like nothing better,” Aziraphale responded, smiling.

“Well. Huh. Okay. Lead on, then.”

_That went much better than expected,_ Aziraphale thought to himself. He walked the familiar path back to the shop in silence, listening intently for the sound of Crowley’s footsteps next to him; terrified that he would blink and find himself walking alone. Fortunately, Crowley wasn’t speaking; it was rather difficult to walk and talk at the same time, even on a well-known route.

“This is it,” he said brightly when they arrived. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, motioning for Crowley to follow him. He closed and bolted the door, shrugged off his coat and hung it on the coat rack by the door, a sequence of movements ingrained in muscle memory by decades of repetition.

“Have a seat,” he said, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the back room. “Something to drink?”

“Um. Tea?” Crowley said tentatively. “Do you need a hand?” he asked.

“Not at all; you make yourself comfortable. Turn on some lamps if you like. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

Aziraphale had a kettle and tea things set out in the shop so that he didn’t have to travel up the stairs to his flat every time he fancied a cuppa, which was usually several times a day. By the time he’d finished preparing two cups, he could hear Crowley playing and singing softly to himself, and he smiled.

“I still can’t believe I never heard you sing before tonight,” he said as he approached, bearing the two cups.

“Figured you were more of a classical music guy,” Crowley said.

“You’re not wrong,” Aziraphale admitted, “But still. I’d rather like to hear more of it, if you don’t mind.”

“Hmm, okay. I’ll play you some of the classics, then. [Eric Clapton](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxPj3GAYYZ0&list=RDEMAooSTA5wUMJn9sD-hZCR0g&index=1), [the Eagles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVsbvFkhzY4&list=RDEMAooSTA5wUMJn9sD-hZCR0g&index=15), that sort of thing. ‘kay?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help a chuckle. “My dear boy, I have no idea who those people are, but go right ahead,” he said. He didn’t miss Crowley’s little huff of laughter before he started playing.

Aziraphale sat back and let the music wash over him.

\---

It became their new routine. Every night, Crowley would show up, and they’d spend a couple of hours together, playing music, talking, getting to know each other a bit more. Aziraphale discovered that Crowley was wonderful company, once you got past his defences; he had a wicked sense of humour and an opinion on just about everything. Sometimes Aziraphale thought he fabricated opinions out of thin air, just to get a rise out of him.

“Hamlet, angel? Really?” he teased. “It’s so very...” he played an exaggeratedly gloomy version of a funeral march on his guitar.

“I suppose you prefer these awful American action films, then? The ones that are all...” he reached over and strummed his fingers randomly across the strings, producing an unholy cacophony and causing Crowley to snort with indignation.

“How dare you?” Crowley said in mock affront. “James Bond is the smoothest of them all.” He then proceeded to [sing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwLXDv6jXr4) something about flying to Russia to make his point.

He seemed to falter a bit on a line about _let my love for you show,_ but Aziraphale was sure that was just his imagination. Wishful thinking, to imagine such a sentiment could be returned.

\---

A couple of weeks into their new arrangement, Crowley didn’t show up one night.

Aziraphale paced, trying not to worry. It was raining, a bit, maybe that was why Crowley hadn’t come out? Or maybe he had something on? He hadn’t said anything, but then, he wasn’t under any obligation to. Azirpahale liked to think they were friends, at the very least, but perhaps he’d read too much into it. Perhaps Crowley had simply grown tired of giving free concerts every night and found something better to do.

The second night that Crowley didn’t show up, Aziraphale got angry. Did Crowley think so little of him, that he would disappear without a trace? Did he not have the common decency to come say “Hey, it’s been fun, but it’s over now?” He got angry at himself for thinking they had anything special; for allowing himself to become attached to a stranger with talented hands and a beautiful voice. He’d been such a fool.

The third night, he cried himself to sleep.

“Zira, what the fuck is going on with you?” Anathema demanded the next day.

Oh, Lord. He’d hope she wouldn’t notice that anything was amiss, but he should probably have known better than that.

“Is this about your musician?” she asked.

“He’s not _my_ musician,” Aziraphale bit out, and then he felt his shoulders slump. “But yes, I suppose it is.”

“I’ll make tea,” Anathema said.

That discussion culminated in them closing up for lunch and walking down to the scrap yard. He should have known better than to spill his secrets to Anathema.

Beez turned out to be exactly as grumpy and prickly as Aziraphale had expected. At first, they refused to even acknowledge that they knew Crowley. Aziraphale tried hard not to get angry; reminded himself how secretive Crowley had been when they first met.

“Look, my dear... person,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley told me he’s staying with you. I haven’t seen him in a few days, and I was concerned about him, that’s all.”

“Wait a minute,” Beez said. “You’re him? The angel?”

“I suppose I am,” Aziraphale conceded, “although he never did explain that nickname to me.”

“Huh. Give me a minute.”

Beez disappeared off... somewhere; Aziraphale heard their footsteps retreat. He and Anathema waited in tense silence until they returned.

“Come with me,” Beez said. “Just you.”

“I’ll see you back at the shop?” Anathema said, a question in her voice. Aziraphale nodded.

Beez took Aziraphale’s arm and led him out of the yard and down the street, walking just a bit too fast to be entirely comfortable. In response to Aziraphale’s question about where they were going, they just said “Home.”

That was the entirety of their conversation as they wove through a few more streets, finally arriving at what was presumably Beez’s house. They unlocked the door and pulled Aziraphale through, led him down a passage to a door which they pushed open.

“Visitor for you,” they said abruptly, pulling away from Aziraphale.

“Hey angel,” came Crowley’s voice, hoarse and soft, so unlike how it usually sounded.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Got a fucking head cold. Throat feels like hell.”

“Oh, so that’s why you haven’t been around,” Aziraphale said, understanding dawning.

“Yeah, sorry,” Crowley said. “Didn’t even have your number to call.” Crowley broke off with a cough.

“Will you stay a while?” he asked, once he’d gotten his breath back.

“Of course, my dear.”

“Good. I’ve missed you. Come sit.” There was a soft thumping noise, and Aziraphale imagined Crowley was patting the mattress next to him, or perhaps a chair?

Sensing his hesitation, Crowley elaborated. “No chair, sorry. Hang on.”

He heard Crowley get up out of the bed and move closer, and a hand was placed on his. “Over here,” Crowley said, guiding him gently, another hand coming to rest on his back.

It tingled, even through his clothes.

“I missed you too, you know,” he said, when the silence had stretched out a little too long for his comfort. “I was worried that maybe something had happened to you. And then I thought that maybe you’d just grown tired of me,” he added with a self-deprecating laugh.

“I would never,” Crowley said earnestly.

“You might,” Aziraphale countered. “I’m sure there are more exciting ways to spend your time.”

“Do you know how many other friends I have?” Crowley asked softly. “How often I actually leave the house except to visit you?” His tone made it clear that the answer was not a large number.

“But why, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, aware that he was treading on thin ice. This was the one thing Crowley had steadfastly refused to talk about; whenever Aziraphale brought it up before, he would shut down completely, to such an extent that he’d stopped asking about it some time ago.

The silence was heavy, broken only by Crowley’s deep breathing. Aziraphale was just about to apologise, talk about something else, when Crowley took his hand again, lifting it with trembling fingers. Aziraphale didn’t say a word, just let his hand be guided until he felt it come to rest against Crowley’s cheek. He could feel a sharp cheekbone and the scrape of stubble under his fingertips.

“This is why,” Crowley said, gently guiding his hand across to the other side of his face. Aziraphale felt the texture of the skin change, becoming knobbly and twisted.

“Scars?” he guessed, softly, and felt Crowley nod against his hand.

He brought his other hand up. “May I?” he asked, as gently as he could. Another nod.

Aziraphale let both hands roam over Crowley’s face, mapping out the shape of it. Some very obvious scarring covered almost half of his face, all along one cheek and temple, smooth skin becoming gnarled and rough.

“What happened?” he asked, softly.

“Fire,” came the equally soft reply. Crowley didn’t offer any more details, so Aziraphale continued his careful exploration.

With one hand he gently traced the line of Crowley’s eyebrow, the margin of his eye socket, the curve of his nose. He let his fingertips trail over his upper lip, feeling how one corner was marred and twisted by scar tissue, contrasting with the smoothness of the skin next to it. When he ran his thumb across a plump lower lip, Crowley’s mouth opened with a soft gasp.

That’s enough, he chided himself. No matter how much he’d dreamed of this, of being allowed to touch, of _Crowley’s_ _lips_... he wasn’t about to take advantage of his friend’s vulnerability. He let his hand come to rest on Crowley’s scarred cheek.

“Thank you,” he said softly. He felt a droplet of moisture running down to meet his thumb, and wiped it away with all the tenderness he could muster.

He felt Crowley tremble, heard a stifled sob.

“My dear,” he ventured, “Would you like a hug?”

The next moment he had two armfuls of musician, sobbing and burying his face into Aziraphale’s neck.

Later, Aziraphale would learn the whole story. How Crowley had been out with his boyfriend, the latter more than a bit drunk, when their car had broken down. How Crowley had scrambled underneath to find a severed fuel line and ended up covered in petrol. How the boyfriend had lit a cigarette and carelessly dropped the match right in the puddle of flammable liquid – the puddle Crowley had also been lying in.

Afterwards, the boyfriend had left; of course he had, despicable creature that he was, leaving Crowley with nothing but the memory of his disgust at the way the fire had etched itself onto him forever. Whenever he looked at himself in a mirror, he saw that look of revulsion staring back at him; fancied he could see it in the eyes of every nurse and doctor and casual passer-by.

And so he’d hidden himself away.

That would come later, though. Now, all that Aziraphale knew was that he was holding Crowley, and Crowley was upset, and needed to be comforted. And okay, a part of his mind was also aware that he may have fallen in love with this ridiculous musician, and he was _holding him_ , but he tried to push that part down. Comfort now, other things... well, he’d have to see about that.

So he confined himself to rubbing soothing circles on Crowley’s back, feeling how bony he was in contrast to Aziraphale’s own well-padded physique. He brought his other hand up to rest on the back of Crowley’s head, and oh, his hair was long, wasn’t that lovely? He murmured softly soothing words in between taking breaths of the sweat-and-shampoo scent of Crowley’s hair, repetitive litanies of “Shh,” “It’s okay,” “I’m here.”

Eventually Crowley stilled and pulled away, leaving a cold empty spot against Aziraphale’s chest.

“Sorry, angel,” he said, embarrassment colouring his words. “Didn’t mean to...”

Aziraphale waved him off. “Nothing at all to apologise for, dear boy. I’m always available for hugs. I have been told I’m delightfully cuddly.”

Crowley chuckled. “That you are,” and surprised him by swooping in for another hug. “Fuck, can’t remember the last time I hugged someone,” Crowley sighed happily, and Aziraphale’s heart broke a little. He resolved to give Crowley as many hugs as he could get away with.

\---

Within a couple of days Crowley was well enough to be out and about again, and they resumed their nightly visits. Something had shifted, though. Crowley was freer, less reserved; the careful distance he’d always kept between them was gone. He also started showing up earlier, shortly after dark, although he left as late as ever.

Until the one Saturday night when he didn’t.

They had progressed from visiting in the shop to hanging out in Aziraphale’s flat upstairs, where there was a comfier couch as well as a small hi-fi and a television. The TV hadn’t gotten much use in the last few years, needless to say, but Aziraphale found himself happy to not-watch movies with Crowley, gently leaning into each other as the night progressed and the wine glasses were emptied. As often as not they ended up cuddled together, or with one man’s head in the other’s lap, revelling in the closeness of another human being. Aziraphale wasn’t quite as touch starved as Crowley – Anathema was a hugger of note – but it had been an embarrassingly long time since he’d had a romantic partner, someone to snuggle up to during a movie or hold hands with as they sat and talked.

Not that this thing with Crowley was romantic. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but surely it wasn’t _that_. Surely Crowley didn’t want that, with him, he told himself over and over.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t.

Until it suddenly was.

It had been a night like so many others; their movie had just come to an end and Crowley turned on his back where he was lying with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale had been running his hand through Crowley’s hair, and the movement brought his cheek to rest under Aziraphale’s fingers. He didn’t bat an eyelid, simply continuing his gentle ministrations over the lumpy skin.

“I’ll bet you’re beautiful,” he murmured, half to himself.

Crowley gave a sardonic laugh. “Yeah, right,” he said. “There’s a beautiful man in this room, but it’s not me.”

“Flatterer,” Aziraphale said fondly.

He felt Crowley sit up. “You are, though,” he insisted. “Soft hands, strong arms, broad shoulders.” Crowley ran a hand up Aziraphale’s left arm as he spoke, and it ended up cupping Aziraphale’s cheek. “Kindest face I’ve ever seen. A smile that outshines the sun. Eyes that somehow see me, the _real_ me, and still manage to look at me with kindness.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, bringing his own hand up in a mirror of Crowley’s posture, pulling him closer until their foreheads were resting together.

“’m gonna kiss you, angel, if that’s okay?” Crowley murmured into the space between them.

“Please do,” Aziraphale breathed.

Soft lips against his; gentle, tentative, almost fearful. He pulled Crowley’s face ever so slightly closer, kissing him back with conviction, trying to convey the _I want this, I want you, I love you_ that was ringing in his mind. Crowley moaned and pulled him close, tilting his head to get closer, closer. Aziraphale felt the scratch of scarred skin against his nose and pulled back slightly, just enough to be able to place a soft kiss on the twisted corned of Crowley’s mouth where the scars distorted its shape; followed by another on his jaw, his cheek, his temple, his forehead.

“You are beautiful, my beloved,” he murmured, “and there is no flaw in you.”

He felt Crowley shudder in his arms, before he was pulled back down into a desperate kiss, overflowing with all the longing they’d both been suppressing for so long.

Crowley didn’t go home that night.

It was the first night of many.

\--

Some months later, much to Beez’s relief, Crowley moved in with Aziraphale. He was spending almost every night there anyway. He had met Anathema, who he bonded with instantly, and was persuaded to join them down in the bookshop during the day. Between Anathema and Aziraphale they even coaxed him out to town, to visit restaurants and parks and, much to his chagrin, a production of Hamlet at the local high school. A gaggle of kids who frequented the bookshop befriended Crowley, declared his scars to be “cool, just like Zuko” (No, Aziraphale had no idea what a Zuko was), and when they learned he could play guitar they insisted he teach them. Before long, Crowley had a whole roster of music students filling up his afternoons.

Aziraphale watched (metaphorically speaking) and smiled as his beloved put down roots and blossomed. Their lives had tangled together effortlessly, two mismatched pieces finding that they were the same kind of strange to fit comfortably together. Their days were rounded out with friends, with laughter, with soft kisses and gentle touches in passing; and at the close of every day, they would retire together to their own little kingdom, their safe space where it was always and forever just the two of them. They lay together at night, Crowley’s head pillowed on Aziraphale’s soft chest, his fingers tracing and exploring every line of Crowley’s body. He didn’t need to see his beloved; he knew him by touch. Knew every muscle and sinew and bony angle of him, could map out every border where smooth skin met scars; had, over the course of many months, placed kisses on every square inch of it. There was not a single part of this man that he did not adore, wholly and fully.

It was everything he could ever have dreamed of.

\---

END

\---

That’s it, my dears, except to say: when Crowley eventually gets around to proposing, I imagine he does it with [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKs3bybeTO8). Because of course he proposes with a song.

**Music** :

Asturias: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=inBKFMB-yPg>

Romanza (Look, this is a must-play for every classical guitarist, okay?): <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tfBZIClY7KU>

Ben woods playing incredible flamenco guitar: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I3jWsoQ8W8g>

Another gorgeous Spanish piece: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aleh4SL6mfY>

Shades of Grey (no Fifty): [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sBpWn2h-T8U&list=RDKHjEIheD-Cg&index=2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sBpWn2h-T8U&list=RDKHjEIheD-Cg&index=2)

Moonlight Sonata: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gQ7m0c4ReI> or a more classical version: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0tsIDbsNi-c>

Beethoven’s 5th on guitar: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q7l1QJWLWXE>

Eva Cassidy’s Time after time: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KWvPOJOYqGA>

Eric Clapton – Tears in heaven: [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxPj3GAYYZ0&list=RDEMAooSTA5wUMJn9sD-hZCR0g&index=1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxPj3GAYYZ0&list=RDEMAooSTA5wUMJn9sD-hZCR0g&index=1)

Eagles – Hotel California:

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVsbvFkhzY4&list=RDEMAooSTA5wUMJn9sD-hZCR0g&index=15](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVsbvFkhzY4&list=RDEMAooSTA5wUMJn9sD-hZCR0g&index=15)

Desperado (GOD, this is such a Crowley song, at least for this fic): [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxPj3GAYYZ0&list=RDEMAooSTA5wUMJn9sD-hZCR0g&index=1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxPj3GAYYZ0&list=RDEMAooSTA5wUMJn9sD-hZCR0g&index=1)

From Russia with love acoustic guitar <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YIMjkVBaLgM> and with vocals <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwLXDv6jXr4>

Crowley’s proposal song, I wanna grow old with you: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKs3bybeTO8>

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick author's note entirely unrelated to this story - if you read Snakeskin Boots and want to kill me, there will be another chapter, I'm on it 😜
> 
> Come say hi in the comments!


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